God Of football - Chapter 537

Chapter 537: Legacies That Move
“So it’s two to nil in favor of Arsenal here at the Emirates and with the rain not looking like it is going to stop anytime soon, we are going to have a very slippery game going forward.”

The rhythm of the game had shifted, but not in Forest’s favor.

Arsenal were ahead, yes—but the spark that had ignited their second had settled into something uneasy.

Izan had grown sharper, but not better.

He took more touches than necessary.

Opted for the spectacular when the simple pass would do.

Three times, he ignored overlapping runs.

Twice, he forced shots from uncomfortable angles.

The fans didn’t boo.

But the murmurs were creeping in.

The commentary team felt it.

“He’s doing too much,” Ian Crocker said from the gantry, brow pinched.

“And we’ve seen this before in great players—when form and expectation get tangled.”

Marsha didn’t disagree.

“The pressure of being special,” she said.

“He’s sixteen. But he’s being treated like he’s twenty-eight with Five Ballons d’Or already.”

Down on the touchline, Arteta noticed too.

He stepped forward, sharp and clipped with his instruction.

“Tell them to slow it down!”

Jorginho heard him, shouted across to Partey, and a ripple of motion spread through the Arsenal midfield.

The message was clear.

Izan got it last.

He received a ball in space with every instinct in him screaming to turn and run.

Saka even prepared to make the sprint alongside him.

But Izan didn’t move forward.

He just stood still for a second.

Then slipped the ball calmly back to Calafiori and turned away, adjusting his sleeves like he was waking up from something.

“What am I even doing?” he murmured to himself under his breath.

And that moment—quiet, unremarkable—reset something.

The game slowed.

Arsenal held onto the ball longer.

Ødegaard and Merino resumed dictating the tempo, while Forest dropped into a medium block, watching, waiting.

Even the crowd shifted, voices softer now, in sync with the pass-and-move sequences rebuilding momentum.

Then, as if by instinct, the moment bloomed from nothing.

Forest tried to push out—one defender stepping high, the midfield caught in half-press.

Jorginho received the ball just inside his own half and turned.

Izan had peeled away wide—far left, alone near the touchline.

Jorginho didn’t hesitate.

The pass came sharp and fast.

Izan took it with the outside of his boot, let it settle, and then he stopped.

For a split second, everyone paused—expecting him to square it back again.

Then he moved.

A sudden turn, followed by his sharp acceleration.

The first defender stumbled trying to shift direction and tried getting back up but the rain wasn’t helping his case.

The second tried to trap him toward the sideline—but Izan slalomed in, cutting across the corner of the box.

By the time he reached the edge, the crowd was already rising.

He shaped to pass.

Saka and Ødegaard both angled their runs, expecting it.

But Izan didn’t pass.

He leaned his body to the left, opened his foot—

And hit it with the outside of his left boot.

A trivela.

A flick that wasn’t raw power but something else—crafted, arrogant, brilliant.

The ball curved across the penalty area like a piece of calligraphy in motion.

Matz Sels, who had poised himself for the cross saw it late—shuffled once and dove—

But he still missed it.

The ball curled past his fingers, struck the far post, and caromed inside the net.

The net didn’t even ripple dramatically.

It just accepted the shot like it had been waiting for it all game.

The Emirates went berserk.

The stands weren’t just loud—they were manic.

A wave of limbs and scarves and disbelief as the crowd erupted in thunder.

On commentary, Ian Crocker’s voice cracked with joy and disbelief.

“THAT’S UNREAL! That’s a finish of pure class. That’s genius! Izan had lifted the rigging!”

“He sent the keeper to London Bridge,” Marsha said, half-laughing.

“That ball had no business going in from that angle.”

Izan didn’t sprint away.

He jogged slowly toward the fans behind the goal, arms out like wings.

When he reached them, he pointed with both hands and shouted something inaudible over the roar—then waved his hands upward.

Louder.

And they obeyed.

The sound lifted like a rising tide.

It grew until it became a song.

A chant of his name pulsing through every corner of the ground.

He stood there for a second too long—just enough to get booked.

The referee trotted over, card raised, and showed him yellow.

Izan smiled as he took it.

He turned and jogged back toward the center circle.

As he passed Calafiori, the defender slapped him on the back.

“You alright now?”

Izan gave a small nod.

And nothing more.

On the sideline, Arteta exhaled deeply—hands resting on his hips now.

“He’s back,” Ian said, voice lower now.

“Not just with a goal. But in control. That was a message.”

Marsha’s reply was softer this time.

“I think he needed that more than we did.”

The camera caught Izan as he arrived at midfield.

The crowd was still chanting.

The Forest players were still stunned.

And in that moment—just before the restart—he looked around the pitch like it had realigned beneath his feet.

Not victory.

But clarity.

He had already been recognized.

….

Far from the noise of the Emirates, the living room was lit only by the pale blue glow of the television.

Miranda sat alone on the couch, a blanket folded neatly across her knees, one hand clutching a cup of tea gone cold.

She hadn’t touched it for a while, not since Izan came on.

The match was nearing its final stages, but her attention had been fixed since the moment Izan stepped on.

At first, she cheered after Izan assisted Partey, then she just watched him overrun one play, force a wild shot, lose the rhythm he normally owned like a birthright.

Her grip on the cup tightened each time he turned down a simpler pass.

Her jaw clenched when he ignored Ødegaard.

Her foot tapped fast and quiet when he wasted the break.

But when the camera cut to him standing still, and she saw that little shake of his head—that sigh from somewhere deeper than frustration—she eased a little.

Then came the trivela.

The audacity of it, the geometry, the absurd precision—it had her out of her seat before the net even rippled.

The mug nearly toppled off the coffee table as she sprang forward, hand to her chest, then to her mouth.

“¡Eso es, Miura!” she whispered sharply, then softer.

“That’s right. You’re already recognized.”

She fell back onto the couch with a soft, exhausted laugh.

Some part of her chest that had been tense for the last couple of weeks finally began to unwind.

Her phone buzzed against the table.

She glanced at the screen.

A number she didn’t recognize.

It rang twice more before she picked it up and pressed it to her ear.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was deep, smooth—practiced, but confident.

The kind that had leaned into phone calls like this a thousand times before and always gotten what it wanted.

“Miranda?” he began.

“Apologies for the cold call. I was watching the match—phenomenal goal, by the way—and thought, maybe this is the moment.

I’ve been following Izan for some time now. I’d like to speak with you about his future.

About shared representation. Long-term vision. Strategic positioning, global visibility—those kinds of things.”

Miranda didn’t move.

She stayed seated, back straight, lips pursed slightly as her eyes drifted back to the screen.

Izan was still on it, framed in the wide stadium shot, catching his breath, exchanging a fist bump with Saka.

Her voice didn’t change. Only her eyebrow rose.

“And you are?” she asked coolly.

There was a beat. Just long enough for anticipation to slip in.

Then came the name.

“I’m Laurent Virelli,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

Miranda’s fingers tapped twice on the armrest.

Oh, she had.

Everyone had.

Virelli had a reputation. Known in every top club’s boardroom. Part-agent, part-architect of empires.

The kind of figure who didn’t chase players—he waited for them to come to him.

And when he did call, people usually listened.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just leaned back and watched Izan jog toward the sideline, his shirt damp, his cheeks flushed.

“So,” she finally said, her tone dry, “you’re the one I’ve heard about. The one who thinks he can take my only client.”

On the other end of the line, Laurent chuckled. It was smooth, practiced—just like everything else about him.

“Miranda. Come now. You’re smart enough to know what’s coming. Why fight it? Better to cooperate before this gets ugly.

Because it will, eventually. You know how this business works. One way or another, I represent the stars.”

Miranda laughed too—but hers was sharp.

A single exhale of amusement edged with steel.

“Then try,” she said simply.

He paused. Then, calmly, he replied, “Good. I like a challenge. But do tell Izan good luck with the Aston Martin deal.”

The breath caught slightly in Miranda’s chest—but her tone didn’t falter.

“You’re reaching,” she said.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just ahead.”

The line went dead.

Miranda stared at the screen for a moment longer.

Laurent Virelli’s name still echoed in her mind like a bad taste—smooth, confident, and sharpened like a blade behind every syllable.

He hadn’t needed to raise his voice to make the threat land.

He’d known exactly what buttons to press.

Aston Martin.

The name came back to her like a gut punch.

She hadn’t even mentioned that deal to Izan yet.

Barely to her own team.

And now Virelli had thrown it out like it was just another chess piece in his pocket.

She closed her eyes for a second.

Breathed.

Then—another buzz.

Her phone lit up again.

Different number.

Also unlisted.

Also foreign.

She answered, this time with her voice lower, firmer.

“Yes?”

The voice that came through was immediately different—less polished than Virelli’s, but no less deliberate.

Male. Mid-40s, maybe.

His English was good, but unmistakably lined with a thick Italian accent that curled at the ends of his vowels.

“Miss Miranda?” the voice asked.

“Speaking.”

There was a warm pause. Too warm.

“I hope I’ve not chosen a poor moment to call. My name is Matteo Bellani. We have not met—but I know of you. Your work with young Hernández… it has not gone unnoticed.”

Miranda’s brows pinched, her tone staying level.

“You’re calling on behalf of who, Mr. Bellani?”

The man gave a light chuckle. “Let’s say… for now… I’m calling in good faith. I represent interests. Ambitious ones. And they would very much like to begin a conversation—with you.”

Miranda’s knuckles went still where they gripped the fabric of her sleeve.

Bellani continued, slower now, more assured.

“The football world is no longer just boots and contracts. It is culture. It is legacy. And if you’re smart, Miss Miranda—and I know you are—you’ll understand that some opportunities… they require vision. Not just instinct.”

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe, either.

He didn’t push harder.

Just let the silence settle like a coin placed on a desk.

Finally, Miranda exhaled.

“You’re not here for small talk. So stop circling. What are you offering?”

The man’s voice lowered slightly.

“Not offering. Inviting. We believe in long-term alignments. In symbols that go beyond kits and crests.”

He paused just long enough before finishing.

“Let’s just say… we build legacies with hearts that move.”

Miranda froze, just a flicker but it was there as she seemed to recognize something.

Her voice, when it came, was colder.

“Elaborate.” She said, a huge smile etched on her face.

A/n: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the evening.